


Push me off (Pull me back)

by PARADISETRAIN12



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Astoria is sick, Draco is suffering, Gen, Gift Fic, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Minor Violence, The world hates Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PARADISETRAIN12/pseuds/PARADISETRAIN12
Summary: Or: Five times Draco was beaten down, and one time he was given a helping hand back upTen years after the end of the Second Wizarding War, one year after Voldemort was defeated, Draco finds himself and his reputation in the dirt.Luckily, Harry isn’t the type of person to turn a blind eye.





	Push me off (Pull me back)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for clicking on my story!
> 
> This is a gift fic for my IRL friend. I hope you like it, Maddie!
> 
> This is Cursed Child compliant, but only because it set a good scene. This happens 9 years before Cursed Child. If you haven't read Cursed Child, all you need to know is: Draco and Astoria are married, but not romantically, they have a child called Scorpius, and Astoria has a hereditary, incurable disease.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Diagon Alley was lively in the aftermath of ten years of peace.

 

Draco stepped out into the light cobblestone street, head held high, back ramrod straight, the way his mother had taught him. He headed straight for the apothecary, feeling the stares of the people around him. He knew what they were thinking. _That’s Draco Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord’s right hand man. That’s Draco Malfoy, Death Eater at sixteen. That’s Draco Malfoy, he’s dark._ His emotions were a churning sea in his stomach, but his expression was calm, almost stony. Father had taught him self restraint from a young age, but six year old Draco would have never thought that _this_ was how those lessons would be put to use.

 

The apothecary was dark and dingy compared to the bright world outside. The door squeaked in the wind as a small man looked up from chopping flobberworms at his desk.

 

“Mister Malfoy! I have your order,” he squeaked, not sounding very surprised, but still rather reserved. The man ducked under the desk, and pulled up a medium-sized wooden box of potions ingredients.

 

Draco opened the box and checked the contents within. Half of it was illegal in the UK, which cost him a fair sum of money to obtain. However, Astoria’s illness could not be slowed by any legal means. If this was the price he had to pay, then so be it. He nodded approvingly at the vials and jars inside, and handed over the payment.

 

“Mimsy!” He called sharply for his house elf, who appeared in the shop with a loud crack. He handed the box over to the elf, and told her to take it to the potions storeroom. The small man finished counting up the money, and nodded at Draco. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Malfoy.”

 

“Thank you Anderson.” He sweeped out the door, the weathered thing rattling shut. And he is back outside, facing the stares and the judgement of the people in the street. A young girl walks by with her mother, and Draco catches parts of their conversation.

 

“Mummy, who was that man? His hair is such a pretty colour!” The mother pulled her child closer to her body, as if to shield her.

 

“That is a bad man, Charlotte. I want you to remember to stay away from him, alright? He was with the bad guys in the war.”

 

“Oh!” The girl turns to look at him, flinching away when he catches her staring. “I’ll stay away from the bad man, mummy.”

 

“There’s a good girl.” And Draco felt his chest clench, because it didn’t matter how much it hurt to see a small child’s eyes turn wary as they watched him, it didn’t matter that he’d only been a child in the war, a child with no choice, none of it mattered, because Charlotte’s mother was right, he was a bad man, a bad man who had hurt people, who still had the permanent brand of the _Dark Lord_ on his left forearm.

 

She was right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Astoria had invited a few of the pureblooded ladies in the area to tea. Pansy Goyle, Florence McLaggen, Jessica Goldstein, and Tracey Davis, the only half blood. Astoria’s sister, Daphne, had an appointment and couldn’t attend, so it was just the five.

 

Draco was headed down to the parlour to remind Astoria to take her potions. She forgot sometimes, especially when distracted by having guests over. He was saved from having to interrupt the ladies when the murmur of conversation was broken by a slightly raised voice.

 

“I need to use the restroom. Sorry ladies, I’ll be right back.” The door to the parlour opened, and Astoria stepped out. Draco quickly ducked to the side to avoid being spotted by the ladies inside. She closed the door gently and looked up, startling a little when she saw him, then gave him a gentle smile. “Thanks for coming to remind me, but I’ve got it,” she said softly, before slipping off to a side room to call a house elf.

 

Draco watched her go, and rubbed a hand over his face in worry. He was afraid for her, afraid about her condition. What use was all the money in the world when he couldn’t protect the people he cared about?

 

Well, the Malfoys were still rich, but not nearly as wealthy as they were… _before_.

 

He sighed, and went to leave, before he caught wind of Florence saying something that made his feet stop in their tracks.

 

“Do you know what they say about Scorpius Malfoy?”

 

Draco found himself with an ear pressed against the door. He faltered– what would Astoria say if she caught him eavesdropping on her ‘friends’? – but decided he didn’t care, because her ‘friends’ were talking about _their son_ behind her back.

 

“They say a lot of things about the Malfoy heir,” Jessica stated dryly. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 

He could imagine Florence licking her lips as she said this. “They say he’s not actually Lord Malfoy’s child. They say he’s the son of the Dark Lord.”

 

“That’s absurd, Florence. Scorpius has a nose,” Tracey quipped.

 

The last time Draco had been so grateful for a halfblood was when Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord. Thank Merlin for their crudeness.

 

Pansy wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know, Tracey. We hardly saw Astoria for a year, and then suddenly she came out with a child in her arms. Any pureblooded lady would be showing off their swollen womb and going on about what a beautiful child they would become.”

 

Jessica hummed in agreement. “And they completely disappeared for months after the child was born. Why would they do that if they had nothing to hide? And Lucius Malfoy _was_ the Dark Lord’s right hand man. Why would he not give his child to Draco?”

 

Draco jerked his head back from the door, unable to listen any longer. He hurried up the stairs as quickly as he could, throwing open the door to his room. Forgetting any measure of pureblood decorum, he collapsed onto the bed.

 

They had hidden away those months prior to and after Scorpius’ birth because of Astoria’s illness. And because of that, people suspected Scorpius was… not theirs?

 

He hoped Astoria never heard of this rumor, but he knew that was unlikely. Astoria heard ten times the gossip he did. Though their marriage was arranged, and Draco had no romantic feelings for his wife, he still cared about Astoria very deeply. The two had grown close over the years.

 

Suddenly, he felt disgusted by all the finery around him. What use was money, when he could not help the two people he cared about? What use was a manor, what use was wealth, when their friends talked about them behind their back, talked about how their child was possibly the Dark Lord’s?

 

What use was he? When he could not save the only two people in the world who mattered?

 

* * *

 

Knockturn Alley was not a place Draco frequented anymore, or at least, not since his father sold out the relatives of these people to stay out of Azkaban.

 

Shopkeepers gave him the stink-eye from their windows and people bumped into him ‘by accident’. He was there for a possible treatment for Astoria, from an old friend of his father’s. Montgomery was not the most trustworthy, but he trusted him enough for this.

 

He stepped into the small shop. It was one of the nicer places in Knockturn—the place was clean, and warm lantern light splashed a dull golden colour on the gray walls. Montgomery greeted him stoically, and asked that Draco pay before handing over the goods. That was fair, he supposed. The exchange was brief and Draco found himself leaving the cozy little store too soon.

 

Drunkards roamed the alley. A group of them swaggered towards Draco, who tried to duck his head and hurry past, hoping they would ignore him. Not that it worked, he thought, as one of them called out: “Oi! Malfoy! Come here, you bastard.”

 

Draco tried to ignore them, but one of them grabbed him by the chin and yanked it up. “We have unfinished business, you rich ponce. Your father put my brother in Azkaban.” Draco’s eyes widened. This man’s dark eyes were clear and narrowed with hatred; he was certainly not drunk. Before he could react, he was lifted in the air and thrown into the curb.

 

He wheezed, air knocked right out of his lungs. Five blurry figures loomed over him, and he blearily wondered why. He blinked, and something wet trailed down his cheek. He was crying.

 

He tried to get up, but one of them smashed a beer bottle over his head, sending him reeling. Shattered glass spilled over the gravel road. A kick in the stomach had him coughing up blood, a twist of his arm caused it to break. The alley was silent as people watched on, unmoving, unwilling to take action. Draco curled his good arm desperately around his head, trying to protect himself, but was quickly flipped and kicked face-first into the ground. He spat the gravel out of his mouth, the taste almost causing him to throw up.

 

He steeled himself. Pain was not something foreign to him. He knew pain, he knew agony’s embrace like that of his mother. And the pain these fools were capable of causing him was _nowhere near_ the Dark Lord’s _crucio_. Mustering the last of his strength, he rolled himself back over, spat in his assailants’ faces and Disapparated.

 

He landed in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor and instantly collapsed to the ground. His mind worked groggily. He tried to call for Astoria, but remembered she was not home today, off to Pansy’s place for tea. No one else was home… except the house elves.

 

“Mimsy…” he croaked out, the house elf instantly appearing before him. “Help…”

 

He felt his consciousness slipping from between his fingers. His father would be ashamed of him for stooping so low as to ask a _house elf_ for help, but strangely, he felt no shame at all. The last thing he heard before he fell into the darkness was Mimsy reassuring her master that “Yes, Mimsy will take care of you, yes she will, don’t you worry Master, Mimsy will fix you up real good...”

 

* * *

 

“What is this...?” Draco was at breakfast with Astoria and a toddler Scorpius, when he found a second publication along with their copy of the _Daily Prophet_ . Across the front in blazing, neon letters was the word ‘OH!’ with the subtitle reading ‘All the hottest gossip and news you need to know!’. They had not subscribed to a _gossip rag_ of all things. He would have to get a house elf to check how it got into the manor. Draco glared at the gaudy thing in disgust and went to throw it away, but then noticed a headline that caught his eye.

 

‘Was Astoria Greengrass’ marriage forced on her by Draco Malfoy?’

 

He frowned, before flicking to the page stated, scanning the passage quickly.

 

_If you attended Hogwarts with Astoria Greengrass, or even just spoken to her, you would know she is the sweetest, kindest witch you would have the fortune to meet. This soft spoken, beautiful woman somehow found herself married to the son of You-Know-Who’s right hand man and Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. Florence  McLaggen, close friend to Ms. Greengrass, believes this is through no fault of her own. That’s right, folks. Astoria Greengrass’ marriage may have been forced upon her by the Malfoys._

 

Florence listed Astoria’s unhappiness when the marriage contract was confirmed as proof of her unwillingness, and the article also mentioned how pale she looked nowadays as signs of an unhappy marriage, instead of illness. Draco frowned, and wondered how much he could sue for. He’d contact their lawyers…

 

“Draco? What’s that?” startled, Draco looked up at his wife, who had a concerned gaze on her face.

 

“Oh, just- just a gossip rag. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Astoria leveled him with a no-nonsense stare. “We both know that’s not true. Pass it here.” Draco reluctantly gave it over.

 

He watched as she glanced over the page, sipping his tea quietly. Would she be upset? Angry? He saw her shoulders shake, in rage probably. A sound escaped her lips, and she covered her mouth.

 

_She was laughing._

 

“Oh this is funny. All of this is completely false!” she giggled. “I wasn’t exactly _happy_ about being married off, but I accepted it. I certainly wasn’t unwilling!” She looked at Draco, eyes bright with mirth.

 

His shoulders sagged in relief. “You’re not mad?”

 

“Oh no, I am,” the smile fell off her face, and Draco was sad to see it go. “We’ll get the lawyers in on this one. And I don’t think I’ll be having tea with Florence anymore.”

 

* * *

 

 

Why were so many wizarding establishments so dark and dingy?

 

Draco did not enjoy visiting the Leaky Cauldron, but he had a meeting with their lawyers, and the Leaky Cauldron had private rooms which he could book. Mighty convenient, that.

 

A quick meeting later, they decided to sue for defamation and libel. Draco went back out to the main hall, intending to Floo back to the manor, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Why hello there, _Draco_ ,” a voice snarled in his ear.

 

His head jerked up, meeting the violent gaze of Theodore Nott. “How’s your father, _Draco_?”

 

Draco swallowed. “I’m not sure. I don’t speak with him anymore.”

 

“Serves him right. His own son cutting contact. Do you know what would be better though?” Nott sneered as the hall fell silent around them. “If he were rotting in Azkaban, like he deserves.”

 

Trying to remain passive, Draco said a soft “That’s nice, Nott, but I’m trying to reach the floo.”

 

“Fuck the floo! Your father put my father in Azkaban!” he yelled, face contorting as spit flew from his mouth at his harsh words. “And then he managed to weasel his way out by doing so, that slimy, backstabbing sonuvabitch! The Dark Lord’s right hand, my ass! He was a coward in the lowest regard ― why aren’t you reacting to me?” Nott screamed.

 

“I didn’t choose my father, Nott,” Draco sighed, suddenly very weary. Theo Nott had never liked him much. “I didn’t choose my family, or my life. I took the hand I was dealt and tried my best to keep the people I cared about out of harm's way. I’m not the one who put your father in prison. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry my father isn’t there with him.” Nott’s mouth was open in an almost comical ‘O’ shape, and Draco would have laughed if the situation was any different. But it wasn’t, so he brushed past Nott, muttering a quick “excuse me,” and Flooed home.

 

Maybe he resented his father a little ― okay, a lot, for getting him into this mess. Sure, his father had provided him with everything he ever wanted when he was young, but that only served to make him a spoiled brat. Now, his reputation was in tatters, the whole of Wizarding Britain _despised_ him, and he had learned wealth could only get you so far.

 

Nott was right. They were cowards, his father, himself. So quick to renounce loyalty, but perhaps that was why they were called what they are.

 

Malfoy.

 

_Mal foi._

 

Bad faith.

 

* * *

 

 

It was snowing.

 

The craze of Christmas shoppers had died down by early January, and the alley was a little calmer when Draco headed towards Gringotts. He was bundled up in a warm coat, but his nose was exposed to the mid-January cold. Draco was required to visit the bank in person at least once a year to check the state of his accounts and his investments, which would be a horrible experience (Draco didn’t go outside much anymore) if it wasn’t Gringotts.

 

Gringotts didn’t care about which side of the war you were on, or anything like that. Instead, they looked at your money and how you treated goblins. If you were up to their standards, they would be nice to you.

 

Draco’s father had taught him that creatures were beneath wizards, that they were scum, but he had also told Draco that he should always stay on the good side of the goblins, that he should stay civil with the people who handled their money.

 

The meeting was routine. His investments were doing great. Money was pouring into his vaults. He walked out of the cast iron gates. Everything was fine.

 

He strode through the alley, chin tucked into his chest, shoulders hunched from the cold. He was looking at his feet, so he didn’t see the large man coming up to him; he didn’t see his angry expression and clenched fist, not until he threw the fist into Draco’s face.

 

His head snapped to the side as he staggered backwards. Blood trickled down his face, and his nose hurt. It was probably broken. He tried to spin on the spot to Disapparate again, but the man grabbed him by the throat and pinned him against the wall, cutting off his air supply. Shoppers were openly staring at them, but no one moved to do anything.

 

“Malfoy,” his lip curled in loathing. “You don’t know me. But you know my sister. Charity Burbage, remember her?”

 

If he wasn’t already struggling for air, Draco would’ve choked.

 

_Professor Burbage._

 

_The Muggle Studies teacher._

 

_The one the Dark Lord murdered._

 

Burbage saw the recognition in his eyes. _Fool,_ Draco scolded himself, mind hazy from the lack of air. He should not have better control over his facial expressions. “You do remember her! Then you would know the Dark Lord took her,” he pressed tighter against Draco’s windpipe, and he wheezed. “And _murdered_ her!”

 

He was going to die. Draco couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he just had the one thought in his mind: that he was going to die, in an assault, in broad daylight, surrounded by bystanders.

 

Well. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. Draco had done terrible things, and it was just about time they caught up with him.

 

His wheezing was so loud he almost didn’t hear the quiet voice speak from beside him.

 

“Put him down.”

 

Both men looked sharply left, and saw a smaller man with black hair, round glasses and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead―Harry Potter?

 

“I won’t repeat myself.”

 

Burbage growled, but obeyed, dumping Draco on the floor. He collapsed in a heap, sucking air into his lungs as quickly as he could, mind clearing quickly as oxygen returned to his body.

 

“Harold Burbage, you are under arrest on charges of assault and attempted murder. Please do not resist,” Potter stated calmly, all official sounding. He turned to Draco. “Mister Malfoy.” His lips pursed as he regarded the heap on the floor. “You bullied my friends and I in school. I don’t stand for bullies, you know.”

 

Draco ducked his head. That was true, Potter had hated him in school, and Draco had made equal effort to hate him back. But then… why would he be helping him? Why would he not leave Draco to die?

 

There was no doubting that he deserved it, after all.

 

“I don’t stand for bullies, Malfoy. But today, you’re a victim.”

 

He offered his hand to Draco. And Draco gawked at him, because here was Harry Potter, his rival since first year, offering him a hand when he was beaten and bloody on the ground. He despised it, he despised that Potter could be so kind and _good_ in the face of his enemies, he despised _Potter,_  the man who defeated the Dark Lord, who brought his family peace from Voldemort but trouble from everywhere else.

 

He took his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my work.


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